Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘It’s fine,’ he murmured into his trencher.

‘That must have been some fall you took, huh?’

‘Yes, a real nasty tumble.’ He didn’t look up.

‘Well,’ Erynn was running out of excuses to stay. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘Another round, please,’ Alen said, loading empty tankards onto her tray.

‘Yes, and a moment’s peace,’ Hoyt said.

‘What’s that?’ Erynn pretended she hadn’t heard.

‘A rutting moment’s peace, please,’ Hoyt repeated, although he already regretted saying it. He wouldn’t look at Hannah, for fear that he might turn to stone.

Erynn didn’t know what to do. Her hands shaking, she gripped the edges of her serving tray like a lifeline. Her lips quivered a moment, and she pressed them together, determined not to cry. ‘Another round of beers, all right.’

Hoyt started, ‘Erynn, I-’ but the girl was already behind the bar.

‘Smooth, dipshit,’ Hannah muttered.

‘Should I go after her?’ Hoyt asked, frowning and tugging at his shoulder dressing.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Alen said. ‘She’ll be back; you can make amends then.’

None of them gave the girl a second glance as she took up a tray filled with tankards and hurried into the street.

Alen had just realised they were still waiting for their drinks when he noticed the young soldier standing in the doorway, staring them down. Erynn had been conspicuously absent since the awkward exchange with Hoyt, and now Alen realised why. ‘Oh shit,’ he said in English.

‘What’s that?’ Hoyt asked.

‘That’s my kind of profanity,’ Hannah laughed, then said, ‘what’s the matter?’

‘Don’t all look at once, but isn’t that whatshisname over there by the door trying to stare us into submission? The one who’s been chasing Erynn’s skirt the past Moon?’

Hannah turned in her chair, ostensibly to order another drink. She caught Morgan’s eye and motioned to him, then turned back to the others. ‘Yes. His name’s Karel, and he looks wicked pissed off about something.’

Hoyt understood. ‘Oh great. That’s just rutting great, just what I need: a lovesick boy angry with me because I managed to put his lovesick girlfriend’s nose out of joint.’

‘And he’s with the Malakasian Army,’ Alen’s said.

‘Yes, right, the baby corps.’ Hoyt tried to laugh it off as nothing. He flushed bright red and, tugging at his collar, said, ‘It’s too hot in here; I’m going up.’

‘Me too,’ Alen said.

‘Should I stay? Try and talk with her?’ Hannah asked.

Alen dropped a few copper Mareks on the table. ‘I think the damage is done. Let’s go.’

They were all upstairs when the representatives of Prince Malagon’s Welstar Palace Home Guard passed through the throng, checked the front room and then moved on towards the wharf. For a few moments, the whole of the street was silent, its collective breath held as the dangerous warriors, their black and gold leather shining even in torchlight, searched for someone. It was a cursory investigation, otherwise they might have tossed the rooms, interrogated the guests or beaten information out of the barman. Only after the soldiers had disappeared back into the city shadows did the revelry begin again.

Redrick Shen was high up in the rigging of the frigate Bellan when Mark Jenkins destroyed Orindale’s merchant fleet, the stone bridge spanning the Medera River and most of the homes and businesses along the wharf. Like many of the Bellan’s crew, he had been transfixed by the carnage. The devastation had been awesome, and rather than flee – there was no reason to believe the Bellan would be spared – Redrick had remained aloft, clinging to the lines and riding the swells that followed the massive, unholy wave as it swallowed the centre of the city.

He was in the shrouds now, riding northerly winds towards the archipelago and the Northeast Channel. Flanking the Bellan to port were the Souzett and the Welstar Prince, both frigates, and jewels in the Parofex Shipping Company crown. Redrick didn’t have any idea where Stahl Parofex was right now, but the Bellan, his flagship, and two other frigates had been impounded by the Malakasian Army, so maybe old Stahl was dangling from the end of a rope in the drawing room of his Orindale mansion. The ships were escorted by a handful of Malakasian naval schooners, another frigate, this one crewed by actual Malakasians, and three smaller, faster boats – two ketches and a sloop – commissioned for what purpose Redrick didn’t know. But all together and from this height, the miniature fleet, all of them under full sail, made an impressive sight.

Redrick guessed the naval cruisers left in Orindale Harbour were Malakasia’s token navy in southern waters, there to oversee the resumption of shipping and commerce in the Falkan capital again. Everything else that could still float was bound for Pellia, via the harrowing Northeast Channel.

Not many sailors wanted to spend much of a voyage aloft. The swells at that height, even on a quiet day, often had the heartiest of seamen hurling their stew; a gentle pitch or roll on deck could be a stomach-churning experience above the topsails. Yet Redrick spent most of the watch and much of his free time as far up in the Bellan’s rigging as he could, balancing effortlessly on his favourite perch, astride a spar rigged for a topgallant and a string of signal flags.

When he was one hundred and fourteen Twinmoons he left Rona’s South Coast and shipped out on a cutter, working for an intrepid businessman hoping to lure seagoing commerce back into Estrad. The journey had been a disaster; they never made it beyond Markon Isle before pirates took the cutter, killed the businessman and drowned most of the crew in the waters off Southport. Redrick was spared, perhaps because of his youth, and forced to sign on with an outlaw schooner, running raids and ducking the Malakasian navy from Southport to Orindale. Over the course of thirty Twinmoons Redrick learned to sail, to screw, to fight and, when necessary, to kill. It was also where he had learned to be comfortable high above the foredeck; pirates weren’t always the best company.

Nor did pirate careers last long. Many died young: ships were lost to the storms that tore up and down the Ravenian Sea, especially during the Twinmoon, and Malakasian naval officers were brutal and merciless. Redrick’s luck couldn’t last for ever, and when it ran out, he’d be captured and hanged by the navy like so many before him. One night he checked his pocketful of silver coins was safely stashed and his good seaboots were firmly tied to his belt, then Redrick slipped over the side and made for the lights of Southport Harbour. He swam as far as he could towards a Pragan vessel hauling nets offshore, eventually hailing the trawler through the darkness.

That had been almost fifty Twinmoons earlier, and now, ironically, here he was, sailing as a forced conscript for the Malakasian navy. The navy had seized the Parofex frigates, famous in shipping circles for the enormous loads they could carry, and when Captain Harwick argued, he had been killed – not just killed, but eviscerated – by the little woman who seemed to be in control of the entire Malakasian military operation in the Eastlands.

The woman had come aboard from a river barge, supervised the careful transfer of one slab of smooth granite, some kind of sculpture or something, Redrick didn’t know what, and then retired to the captain’s cabin with the great grey brick in tow. From there her orders were conveyed to the crew by an army officer who scurried about like a fennaroot addict.

Within a day, the battered and threadbare soldiers who’d come on board with their leader had been joined by what looked to be at least a regiment of tired infantry. They had come on a forced march from Wellham Ridge, and most looked as if they were about to collapse from fatigue and exposure. They were wet and cold and many had already fallen ill with lung infections. Those that had already died had been unceremoniously cast over the side.